Chapter Thirty Three

Catherine's Pov

Two weeks Ago

“You’ve made significant progress in just one week, Miss Catherine,” my therapist, Sarah, said during our seventh session.

I kept count.

Mom had promised therapy would only last a month. Four weeks. That was the deal.

I nodded anyway.

Sarah tilted her head slightly, studying my face like the answers to my problems were written somewhere between my eyebrows. Like if she stared long enough, she’d decode me.

I looked away.

The clock ticked softly on the wall.

A week had passed. Somehow.

Most of my time was spent in this room now—on the soft couch, under her calm voice, surrounded by tissues and neutral-colored pillows. The rest of my time was spent doing the things she assigned me.

Clean your room.

Write your thoughts.

Try cooking.

Do something with your hands.

So I cleaned.

I burned rice twice.

I filled three notebooks with half-finished sentences and crossed-out feelings.

I tried to follow every instruction like it was homework that decided my future.

Because maybe it did.

And maybe if I did everything right, the tight feeling in my chest would finally let me breathe.

It did.

Every time she pulled a story out of me, something heavy left with it. Like I was dropping pieces of pain on her office floor and walking out lighter.

Mom stopped begging me to go.

I started going on my own.

“You promised we’d talk about Asher Davies today,” Sarah said, setting her files aside and lifting her eyes to me.

Yeah.

Of course she remembered.

She picked up her pen and waited.

I stared at the carpet.

“He’s my ex-boyfriend,” I finally said, my eyes slipping shut.

The words tasted bitter.

The room went quiet.

No soft encouragement.

Just space.

Space for everything I didn’t want to say.

My chest tightened.

Because “ex-boyfriend” was the easiest part of the story.

She didn’t push.

So I did.

“We started dating in my senior year,” I said quietly. “He was already popular before he even joined the football team. Honestly… he was just one of those boys every girl whispered about in class.”

I swallowed.

“Then he made the soccer team, and everything exploded. Girls noticed him more.”

I let out a small, shaky laugh.

“And somehow… I caught feelings.”

My eyes drifted to the window.

Anywhere but her.

Tears gathered before I could stop them.

“After his first big win… after he scored his first goal… I confessed during the celebration party.”

My voice dropped.

“He said I could only date him if I made the cheerleading squad.”

The words sounded stupid out loud.

“Like… that was the condition. If I wanted him, I had to earn him.”

I gave a small laugh that didn’t reach my chest.

“It was crazy. But I tried anyway. I did everything. Practiced till my legs shook.”

And somehow…

“I made the team.”

She stayed quiet, letting me talk.

I told her about the dates. The way every conversation somehow turned into what I should wear, how I should act.

By the time I stopped talking, my throat hurt.

There was a pause.

“Why did you break up with him?” she asked gently.

“He dumped me,” I said.

Something lifted in my chest.

“Do you still love Asher Davies?”

The question sat between us.

I thought about it.

I didn’t hate him.

But… life had been lighter without him.

“I hate cheerleading,” I muttered. “But I love the uniform.”

She laughed softly. “Catherine.”

“He gave me homework for a relationship,” I added. “Like loving him was a full-time job.”

Her smile faded a little.

“He cheated,” I said.

She studied my face.

“Say the truth, Catherine.”

I looked down at my hands.

“I don’t want that kind of love anymore,” I said, letting the words roll out slowly. “I don’t regret what I had with Asher. I learned from it. I’ve seen better.”

“Dominic,” Sarah said softly, tilting her head.

I shook my head, a small, frustrated laugh escaping. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

She nodded, not pushing. That’s why I liked her. She didn’t force me to spill everything at once.

“Have you been keeping up with the things I asked you to do?” she asked, her voice gentle but firm.

I swallowed. “Yeah… mostly. Journaling, cooking a little, trying to breathe when everything feels too heavy.”

She smiled faintly. “And how does that feel?”

I hesitated. The truth made my throat tight. “Better. Lighter. I’m actually… noticing things. Feeling things.”

Sarah nodded, jotting something down in her file. “Good. That’s exactly what we want. Healing isn’t about forgetting the past. It’s about seeing it clearly, learning from it, and then making space for what’s real now.”

“Remember,” she continued, “you can honor what you felt with Asher, but it’s time to stop letting it define how you approach the people who actually care about you. Don’t punish yourself for the time you spent with someone who never deserved it.”

I exhaled slowly, imagining Asher’s face fading into a blur. The tension in my shoulders eased slightly.

I went home afterward feeling drained, like I’d just emptied out a heavy bag I didn’t know I was carrying.

Mom started waiting for me in the living room on therapy days.

Sometimes with snacks.

Sometimes with takeout.

Sometimes just sitting there, scrolling through her phone and pretending not to watch the door.

One evening, Mom knocked on my room.

“Want to come with me to the mall?” she asked.

I hesitated.

Then nodded.

She tried on sunglasses and made me rate them. I told her they all looked the same.

She bought two anyway.

A few weeks later, she burst into my room waving her phone.

“Weekend trip,” she announced. “Just us.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Fishing resort.”

By noon, we were sweating, sitting by the water with untouched fishing rods, staring at floating leaves.

“This is boring,” I muttered.

Mom sighed dramatically. “I thought it would be… relaxing.”

A fish jumped.

The weather got colder.

“Your school called about an event,” she said suddenly.

My mind was somewhere else.

“Are you going?” she asked.

I shook my head, rubbing my arms.

She watched me for a moment.

“You know you’re my girl,” she said quietly.

“And I love you. That’s why I’m giving you this… even after your father warned me not to.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope.

My heart jumped.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Hm.” She smiled faintly. “You suddenly look interested.”

She handed it to me.

“It’s a letter from Dominic.”